


Prisoner

by Ekala



Series: Assassin's Creed Kink Meme Fills [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed 1 - Fandom, Assassin's Creed II - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed 1, Assassin's Creed II, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Not Canon Compliant, Power Imbalance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-12
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekala/pseuds/Ekala
Summary: He had come from the Apple, and he had to be interrogated.
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Series: Assassin's Creed Kink Meme Fills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/516646
Kudos: 22





	Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> De-anon from the (original?) Assassin's Creed Kink Meme. Written for [this prompt.](https://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=914633#t914633)

He had come through the Apple. It was not known how, accepted as merely another power it had. He wore stange clothes, spouting a language that Malik had identified as an odd offshoot of Italian, though Altaïr could still not understand a word. His face was oddly like Altaïr's own - a lost brother, Malik insisted, but Altaïr refused to listen.

He _had_ come from the Apple, and he had to be interrogated.

The man was chained to the ceiling, having been stripped of his clothes and beaten for hours before Altaïr came to see him again. He dismissed the guards, watching his prisoner silently for a moment before striding towards him.

"Who are you? Where do you come from?" He grabbed the man's jaw, crushing it in his fingers as he jerked his head up to look at him. "Are you a Templar?"

" _I do not know what you ask! You are an assassin, yes? I am a brother! A friend!_ " The man sounded desperate but Altaïr still could not understand him. It was not good enough. He dug his fingers into a fresh bruise, watching him writhe.

"Speak sense! Why have you come here?" The man continued to babble, pleading with him, but Altaïr was barely listening. He was considering what to do next. It was obvious they needed this man alive, as they should be able to extract information from him eventually. As such, Altaïr was at a loss of what to do. (He was never much of a torturer.) The man was still staring him in the face, and Altaïr noticed that he - having similar looks to himself - was rather good-looking. And he was strong, had a nice body.

Perhaps it was time for another tactic.

Releasing his prisoner, he circled around him, stalking his prey. The man's talking subsided, and he watched Altaïr warily. Altaïr growled, looping behind him, grabbing his hips roughly and biting his shoulder. Groans, after all, were the same in every language.

Altaïr removed his gloves, running his hands over his prisoner-turned prize, squeezing bruises and sensitive areas alike, receiving the same noises for both. Power had always been intoxicating, and this was a level beyond what he had received before - life and death was one thing. Total and complete control of a body was another. A rough hand to his hardening erection drew a moan while nails digging into a bruise earned another twist away. He laughed, dark and slow, removing his hands altogether to remove his belt and pull himself out of his breeches, stroking languidly and watching his prize squirm.

He let his nails bite into the man's hips again, growling into his ear. "Time to learn your place." The man struggled, trying to say something before being cut off by a strangled gasp of pain as Altaïr pushed into him. Altaïr hissed at the too-tight muscle surrounding him, laughing breathlessly. He pushed harder, ignoring the yelp from the man and the blood slicking his entry, growling only at the heat surrounding him.

Rough thrusts rocked them both, Altaïr leaving new bruises all over him as he took every last inch of what he wanted. Altaïr had never noticed before how much cries of pain sounded like those of pleasure, sobs and groans for every small movement. It was beautiful, the feeling of taking one against their will but with little struggle. Altaïr did not last very long, unable to resist the bloody heat for much beyond the initial thrust. He emptied himself inside his prize, marking him fully, thoroughly enjoying the moan of despair it wrung out of him.

He pulled out, cleaning himself up but leaving his captive abused and hopeless. Circling back around, he smiled darkly at the look of defiance still on that face.

"I hope you have--"

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted, _you bastard, let me go!_ " the man spat, eyes fierce with defiance. The Creed. So he was an assassin. Altaïr smoothed a hand over his face, smile widening.

"Seems my methods have worked this time. I will allow Malik to see and attempt to translate you." As Altaïr turned to leave, the man slumped in his chains, looking relieved as something finally worked. Altaïr laughed again.

He may have been an assassin, but he was still a prisoner. And Altaïr could still do whatever he wished with him. And he _would_. Later.


End file.
